Best Friend
by TheLocket
Summary: Results of the Triwizard Tournament: more students at Hogwarts, increased competition between rival schools, a few more chances for eternal glory, and Draco Malfoy becomes the secret obsession of a girl to whom men are nothing but toys.
1. Fleur Finds Someone Worthy

✴ Chapter One ✴

Fleur smoothed the pale-blue hat perched jauntily on her perfect blonde hair.

"How do I look?" she asked with a winning smile. Mirielle laughed as she combed out her brown tresses.

"Like Aphrodite," she joked, bending to brush her almost waist-length hair. It was Fleur's turned to laugh – she took the brush from her friend and performed the task for her, as Mirielle closed her gray eyes in cat-like bliss.

"Ladies, ladies!" cried their Headmistress, Madame Maxime, in a strong French accent. She clapped her hands and all the girls lined up, chattering. Mirielle drew her hair back in a pony-tail, her hands brisk and practiced. She placed the hat upon her head, brushing a stray lock behind her ear.

The tall doors to the Great Hall swung open, and the girls of Beauxbaton entered, Mirielle in perfect step with her classmates.

The Great Hall was impressive, the tall ceiling disappearing into a night-sky, many illuminated candles hanging, suspended in the air by magic. As they walked down the long alley between the tables, Mirielle felt every eye upon her and her classmates. She held her head high and stared straight ahead, pretending to ignore the rushing embarrassment she felt under the gaze of all. Ahead of her, she saw Fleur switch her mechanical stride to a showy walk, swinging her hips. That made Mirielle laugh, as she saw the stunned expressions on the boys they passed.

They reached the front of the hall, and lined up. Their Headmistress exchanged words with the Hogwarts Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. Fleur was standing next to her.

"Look at them," the blonde girl breathed into her ear. "They're dumbstruck." Looking around, Mirielle found that Fleur was right. The boys were staring at the group of Beauxbaton girls as if petrified.

"C'mon, Miri," Fleur nudged her. Offering a resigned smile to Fleur that made a boy nearby sigh, Mirielle pulled the tie from her long hair, letting it stream luxuriously down her shoulders. A few eyes whipped from Dumbledore towards her direction. Fleur, reveling in the attention, offered the crowd a beguiling smile that made a boy nearby, gulping from a goblet, choke.

Madame Maxime urged her students to disperse.

"Ladies, find a seat," she said, in her French accent. Fleur linked arms with Mirielle, smiling they watched the boys around the Hall quickly scoot over to make room. Fleur pointed to a table at the far end, that was draped in blue cloths. The boys there seemed entranced.

"There?" she asked Mirielle. Without a word from her dark-complexioned friend, Fleur dragged her towards the table, and they sat there and ate. Fleur was soon in a deep conversation with a sixth or seventh year named Roger. He seemed dazzled by Fleur, and kept nodding blankly as Fleur chattered on. His fork kept missing his mouth, and his brown eyes were misty and unfocused.

"What's your name?" asked the boy sitting next to Roger.

"Mirielle," she replied, glancing over his shoulder, attempting to find someone _she_ could chat with.

"Miri?" the boy wondered. Mirielle looked at him sharply.

"Mirielle," she corrected. Fleur was the only one who she allowed to call her by her nickname. The boy, however, was unperturbed by her clear message. He kept trying to strike up conversation through the end of the last course and the beginning of dessert. Finally, Mirielle could stand it no longer.

"Fleur?" She asked quietly. The blonde girl looked questioningly at her.

"I'd like to go now. I'm rather tired, from the trip." Her usually light and melodic voice was short with anger.

"I'll take you to your carriage," offered the boy.

"I'd rather Fleur take me," Mirielle replied, using her most dazzling smile to make the boy go misty-eyed.

"You go without me," Fleur replied impatiently.

"Please?" begged Mirielle. "You can see him later." She didn't bother to keep her voice down. No one ever cared what she said.

"Well, goodnight, Roger," Fleur told the dark-haired boy, reaching across the table to briefly touch his hand. She got up and left, not waiting the five minutes it took him to sum up the courage to reply, "Goodnight, Miss Delacour."

As they left the Great Hall, Fleur grabbed her friend by the arm to command her attention.

"What was that about?" she asked sharply.

"I don't know," Mirielle responded honestly, sweeping her long hair behind her shoulders and out of her face, clutching her hat in her free hand. Fleur clung to her other.

"I don't get why you didn't like Roger." When Mirielle didn't respond, she continued. "He's such a sweet boy," Fleur began. Soon she was jabbering. ". . .and he's so handsome. I think he might be worthy."

They reached the end of the entrance hall, and Fleur let a stunned-looking second-year hold the door open for her.

"Did you see anyone worthy?" asked Fleur as she turned to her brown-haired friend.

Mirielle had looked away. A boy around their age had caught her eye. He was tall, so tall that his face was thrown into relief by the torch that hung a few feet above her head. His hair was pale blonde, falling across his forehead towards his eyes, which were intense and blue. Those eyes caught her attention, and threatened to pull her backwards.

"Did you?" asked Fleur asked impatiently, drawing her friend's attention. The boy had turned, he was walking away, back towards the center of Hogwarts, his green and black robes billowing in the warm castle-air.

Fleur glanced back, trying to see what her friend was staring at.

"No," Mirielle responded after a pause. "No one." She glanced back once more, but the boy was gone. They continued back towards the carriage and left the heavy wooden door to swing shut behind them.

The next day Fleur woke Mirielle at dawn.

"Up, Miri!"

"Five more minutes," Mirielle mumbled, still asleep. Her friend laughed and yanked off her covers. Her brown-haired friend yawned and turned over, and within seconds was asleep once more.

They walked around the lake that was in front of the Hogwarts Castle. Although Mirielle disliked getting up so early, she enjoyed those few hours right after dawn, as it seemed as if the rest of the world was asleep, and she and Fleur were alone in the pale, misty dawn. As they walked, they talked. The subject of the Triwizard Tournament came up again.

"I don't want to enter," Mirielle replied stubbornly.

"Why don't you?" asked Fleur.

"Because I don't like that sort of pressure," Mirielle replied honestly. "All those people cheering, others booing and yelling at you. . ." The dark-haired girl stared emptily out at the grey lake.

"You like that sort of attention," she added, staring at Fleur, who laughed and shook her flowing blonde hair.

"But you must be suicidal to enter the Triwizard Tournament!" Mirielle exclaimed when Fleur didn't respond.

"Only on Mondays," she replied with a laugh.

Madam Maxime had arranged it so that the girls of Beauxbaton would continue education, albeit not as strictly. Each morning she would lecture to her students about different magical theory, and then they would read from different books, depending on the subject of the morning's lesson.

By noon the lessons were done for the day and they were free to wander the corridors. Fleur often dragged her friends off to attempt to find Roger. He had exams that year, and studied fiercely. He spent most of his time in the library, reading. Fleur, instead of being upset by his defensive reaction to her, was impressed by his studious nature, and annoyingly doting.

They had been at Hogwarts for a week when the headmaster, Dumbledore, unveiled the Goblet of Fire. Fleur stared at it in apprehension and excitement. Her expression made Mirielle feel hopelessly alone; while they both enjoyed sharing everything, from teaming together to get attention from guys, to sharing notes from Charms class, Mirielle couldn't hope to ever share something like the Triwizard Tournament with Fleur. It was the dividing line, the thing that differentiated attention-seeking and risk-loving Fleur from grounded, fun-loving Mirielle.

It rained that afternoon, and all the girls of Beauxbaton bundled up in stylish blue cloaks and their hats. Fleur was the first of Beauxbaton to enter, crossing the age-line easily and placing her name fearlessly in the tall, flickering, blue flames.

Mirielle met her right outside the circle of admirers and entries, clasping her hands and wishing her luck. As they left the Great Hall, Mirielle found the boy again. He was leaning nonchalantly against the wall, and his blue eyes followed Mirielle as she left. She swivelled, her hand still locked in Fleur's. He seemed comfortable and relaxed, standing alone in the shadows. He was looking at her, his blue eyes strangely compelling and deep.

Mirielle was yanked from his gaze by Fleur, who was anxious to return to the library. They walked down the corridors chatting, and soon Mirielle was no longer thinking about the blonde boy with blue eyes. When they entered the library, Fleur suddenly pulled Mirielle behind a bookshelf.

"What?" whispered Mirielle.

"It's him!" responded her friend triumphantly. Quickly she removed her hat, untied her hair, and looked hopefully at Mirielle.

"How do I look?" she asked confidently, as always. Mirielle laughed. She was running out of clever responses.

"Like Roger's girlfriend," grinned Mirielle. Fleur grinned back and winked, leaving a giggling Mirielle in the shadows of the library.

Mirielle poked her brown-haired head from behind the library shelves, and grinned yet again. Fleur had walked over to Roger, and when he saw her his face lit up with ebullience. Fleur easily sat down before Roger had a chance to object that he was studying. Soon they were talking quietly, Fleur helping him read over his Charms notes. Although she was talking about Charms, not about a relationship, the twinkle in her eyes told Roger otherwise.

Glad that her friend was happy, Mirielle took a book from her bag and seated herself comfortably in a different part of the library. She was reading when a pair of feet came into her vision. She glanced up from her reading to see a boy a few years younger, standing with a book on plants clutched in his hands.

"Hi," he said breathlessly.

"Hello," replied Mirielle, her musical voice light and friendly. She glanced up into his brown eyes with a smile in her gray.

"I'm Longville. I mean Neville. Neville Longbottom."

Mirielle smiled kindly at him, which made him go a delicate shade of red.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Mirielle." She looked at him, a measuring look that made him redden even more. She decided that this boy would definitely do anything for her. Also, she was thirsty. But she knew how to play this game, and she had all the cards.

"Do you mind if I –" He gestured nervously at the chair next to her.

"Not at all," she replied with a smile. Mirielle never tired of this game. He didn't seem to want to talk, so she returned her gaze to the open book.

"So . . .so how do . . . how do you like Hogwarts?" he managed to ask. Mirielle looked up, and replied, "It's nice, I'm sure." She added one of her perfect smiles. Somewhere near, a person rearranged books. Otherwise it was silent, and the silence seemed to unnerve the boy.

"How are you?" he asked after a pause. Mirielle could have grinned, but instead she arranged her face in a bland albeit discontent appearance.

"I'm rather thirsty."

"Can. . .can I get you anything?"

"I'd love a butterbeer," Mirielle replied. She knew that she had him.

"Of course," he replied, staring wide-eyed at her. Then he stood, and hurried off. When he turned a corner, then doubled back and made another turn, Mirielle laughed aloud. She had won the game yet again.

"Do you do this often?" came a drawling voice. Turning, Mirielle felt her heart skip a beat. It was the blonde boy.

"Whenever I'm thirsty," she replied with a wicked twinkle in her gray eyes. His eyes matched hers, mirroring the expression. "Why do something when others would feel honored to?" she wondered.

He easily took the chair that the boy, Neville, had vacated. She noticed the ease and comfort that she had seen in him before. He seemed completely calm and unflustered, a welcome change from the usual blushing and clumsy boys she talked with.

"So do your admirers usually to everything for you?" he asked. A question for a question. It made Mirielle grin. Finally someone to play the game with, someone she didn't know she'd win against.

"Define everything, and then the answer will be yes," she replied foxily. He raised an eyebrow at her cunning remark.

"Do you expect me to do this undefined 'everything'?" he asked.

"What couldn't you do for me that I could do?" countered Mirielle, giving him an intense look that made him grin. She cocked her head and smiled as she felt his eyes stare at the river of her hair as it streamed over her shoulder. Those strangely compelling blue eyes locked with hers again.

"You could tell me your name," the blonde boy drawled casually.

"And you could tell me yours," Mirielle replied, glancing becomingly up at him through her dark lashes. "But why ruin the mystery?"

"I like watching a mystery unravel," he replied with half-smile that made Mirielle's heart turn over. She was about to say her name when she heard footsteps.

"Here! I got you a butterbeer!" the boy was breathless, and clutched an unopened butterbeer in a sweaty hand. He paused when he saw the blonde boy.

"What are you doing?" he asked the blonde boy, looking hurt.

"He was just helping me find some books," replied Mirielle, locking eyes with the blonde boy who grinned and took the clue.

"Right," he said, his voice calm and sly. He glanced at Mirielle, as if savoring the cunning smile and flowing hair, and then was gone, vanishing deeper into the library. When he left, Neville held out the bottle to Mirielle.

"Thank you, Neville," replied Mirielle. She opened it with a tap of her wand, and took a long sip from the bottle. Fixing the boy with a grin, she judged him for a moment, then asked, "Would you like a sip?"

"Oh. . n-no thank you," he replied. Mirielle grinned. She knew he would refuse. She loved it when she was right.

"Well, thank you, Neville," she murmured, her melodic voice making Neville blush again. She closed the book, and swept easily from the library, leaving a stunned Neville standing alone, and the blonde boy grinning in the shadows.


	2. What's In a Name

✴ Chapter Two ✴

Mirielle returned to the main part of the library. After a few sips, she didn't want the butterbeer. She didn't feel like throwing it away, nor did she feel like carrying it around, and she could definitely wanted to play the game again, a quick bit of fun to break the monotony. Walking over to a boy sitting alone in the corner, a few books propped up and quills scattered haphazardly and ink spots all over the books, Mirielle smiled. She easily sat down next to him. He looked up, startled, the clear hazel of his eyes cute and friendly.

"I was watching you from over there," Mirielle said, her voice smooth and honeyed. "And I thought how lonely you must be." She gave him a moment to respond. He blinked and repeated, "You were watching me?"

"Yes," she replied, her eyes twinkling beneath thick lashes. "But I should get back to my studies." She looked down, faking shyness. "I just thought that I'd give you a butterbeer, because I thought you might be thirsty." She attempted a shy smile, holding out the half-drank butterbeer. The boy glanced at it, as if shocked, then took off the cap and took and long sip. He didn't seem to realize that it was half-empty.

"I'd better go," Mirielle added quietly. "Nice meeting you."

She left the boy sitting alone with the now almost-empty butterbeer. She grinned to herself. With luck, she would never have to do anything herself, ever.

She entered the middle of the library, to see Fleur sitting with Roger. She was talking, and smiled at Mirielle over his shoulder. She said something quietly, whispering into Roger's ear, and left, slinging a bag over her shoulder in a graceful movement. She walked over to Mirielle, beaming.

"What have _you_ been up to, Miri?" she asked, her face flushed with exuberance from talking to Roger.

"I flirted a little," she replied. Fleur laughed easily, her musical laugh drawing the gaze of a group of second years in the hallway.

"Anyone worthy?" asked Fleur again. Mirielle shook her head.

"No one like Roger," she answered honestly. She couldn't tell Fleur about the blonde boy until she knew his name, and she was slightly embarrassed that she didn't completely control him. But it also was somewhat of an added attraction that he wasn't so easily swayed.

"I saw you talking with that Hufflepuff," Fleur wheedled.

"Who?"

"Ernie MacMillian," Fleur replied. "The brown-haired boy you gave the butterbeer."

"Oh."

"Where did you get that butterbeer?" asked Fleur, intrigued. Mirielle grinned, knowing her friend's reaction.

"Neville Longbottom," she replied.

"Ah!" shrieked her friend. "I knew that you were toying with guys today! So heartless, a classic Artemis. Turned any boys into stags yet today?" Both girls laughed. They enjoyed the view from the corridor, staring out at the cool, mountainous landscape. A snowy white owl flew around the highest peak. Fleur sighed and put her head on Mirielle's shoulder.

"Scared?" asked Mirielle. She knew her friend was thinking about the Triwizard Tournament.

"Yes," admitted Fleur, her blue eyes distant. "One part of me wants my name to come out of the Goblet, and another part just . . .just wants to go home."

"What about Roger?" asked Mirielle gently.

"I am certain about him, at least," Fleur replied with a genuine smile. "I'm certain."

Later that evening, Dumbledore announced that the Goblet had made its decision. Fleur clasped Mirielle's hands, staring hopefully and expectantly at the tall blue flames. With a crackle, the flames turned ruby, and a piece of parchment floated out of the red flames.

"And the champion of Durmstrang is. . .Viktor Krum!" announced Dumbledore. Mirielle didn't applaud – her hands were locked in Fleur's. Suddenly Fleur tightened her grip; the Goblet's fire had turned red again.

"And the champion for Beauxbaton is. . ." Dumbledore paused and glanced at the girls sitting tensely. "Fleur Delacour!"

Mirielle applauded until her palms hurt. Fleur rose and walked towards Dumbledore, a perfect smile on her face. Dumbledore pointed her in the direction of the room Viktor Krum had disappeared into.

Some of the girls of Beauxbaton were really upset that their name wasn't called. Mirielle could see Nicole sobbing into Giselle's shoulder, and Anna was choking back tears. Mirielle looked at the ground, hoping that her true feelings weren't written across her face clearly. Had she been able to see herself, she would have been granted her only wish; others could not tell how worried she suddenly felt for Fleur.

The Goblet crackled again, and another parchment fell into Dumbledore's waiting hands.

"And the Champion for Hogwarts is Cedric Diggory!" The applause was loud and tumultuous, especially from a table draped in orange and yellow. A handsome boy stood and walked to Dumbledore. He looked like what Mirielle cherished as the perfect prince, his hair golden and thick, his eyes blue and laughing, his stride practiced and confident. He disappeared.

"We now have our three champions!" Dumbledore exclaimed. If he said anything more it was drowned out by the crackling of the fire as it once again turned red. Mirielle was confused – there were only supposed to be three selections. She wasn't the only one confused. Whispers filled the hall.

Glancing from the students to Dumbledore, she saw that he had caught the name.

"Harry Potter," he muttered. "Harry Potter. Harry Potter!" His voice was rising, louder, panicked. Glancing around the hall, Mirielle saw a dark-haired boy from the Gryffindor table stand up. Her eyebrows knit in surprise. The boy wasn't even fifteen! Others in the hall were just as astounded as she, whispering and glaring at the boy.

Glancing around at the muttering students, Mirielle felt a jolt. The blonde boy was sitting at a table, the Slytherin table. His handsome face was twisted in a sneer, and he was talking angrily with two thuggish boys. He glanced at the boy walking down the aisle between the tables. His icy blue eyes caught Mirielle's. His anger-hardened face softened, and that seductive half-smile appeared on his lips. Their glance continued for a long moment. As if on cue, all the students stood and left in a jumbled mess, and she was separated from the blonde boy who was sitting at the Slytherin table, smirking.

Fleur met Mirielle by the coach.

"Congratulations," murmured Anna half-heartedly.

"Yeah, good job," Nicole muttered. Fleur glanced at them, tightened her lips at their absence of enthusiasm.

"Oh, thanks," she replied in an overly chirpy voice. Once they left, Fleur brightened, and beamed at Mirielle.

"Miri! I knew I'd be chosen!" she exclaimed. Her grin was infectious, and despite all her worry, Mirielle felt herself smile too.

"But you should have seen it!" she exclaimed. "Dumbledore about died of shock when that Potter boy was chosen! You should have seen it! Then they started interrogating the poor boy, and then they dismissed us, but we could still hear them yelling."

"Madam Maxime looked really upset," noted Mirielle. Fleur nodded.

"She thinks this was Dumbledore's doing, to give Hogwarts another chance to win." Fleur turned to grin at Mirielle, her exuberance overflowing through her blue eyes.

"Oh, Miri, I'm just so happy!"

Fleur collapsed onto her bed, beaming up at the carriage's roof.

"I hope I get lucky with this tournament, and do well," Fleur said.

"If you don't get lucky with the tournament," Mirielle responded grinning wickedly, "then you could always with Roger."

With a look as though scandalized, Fleur picked up her pillow and wacked Mirielle across the head, causing her perfect pony-tail to fall messily across her face. Shrieking and laughing, Mirielle picked up her own pillow, and chaos ensued.

The next day, after lunch, Mirielle and Fleur walked through the gardens around Hogwarts. The late fall was warm and green, the trees reaching towards the blue sky with emerald fingers. Mirielle and Fleur walked with arms linked, their blue-shod feet falling into perfect rhythm. Seeing Nicole and Anna standing by a fountain, Fleur walked over. Soon they were chatting.

"Have you seen that Diggory boy?" Fleur asked the other girls. Their reactions were identical and extreme – they both widened their eyes and sighed theatrically.

Mirielle turned towards them and began chatting about their visit to the World Cup that summer, when Anna glanced over her shoulder, her green eyes widening. Mirielle turned to see the blonde boy standing there, flanked with the goons from the night before, a coy smile on his lips.

"I saw you ladies from the other side of the courtyard," he said, speaking confidently and calmly, his eyes clear and crystal blue, "and I thought that you could use some. . ."– his blue eyes found Mirielle's gray – ". . .company." His smirk made Mirielle's heart flutter. He leaned against the gray stone wall, glancing at Mirielle with a crafty and foxy look in his icy blue eyes.

"Here we are standing here like strangers," laughed Fleur. "How silly of me! I'm Fleur Delacour," she said, smiling at the blonde boy.

"And I'm Anna Hugdens."

"Nicole Wright." The blonde boy nodded at all the girls as they introduced themselves. He turned to Mirielle, who stared at him. She didn't want to know his name. Most likely, she'd just be disappointed. He couldn't be so perfect. His name would just be a let down.

"I'm Mirielle. Mirielle de Poesy." Instead of being upset by the name Poesy, as her family was infamously Pureblooded, the boy grinned. Mirielle glanced up at him. Although his reaction was strange, Mirielle waited, bracing herself for the words that disappoint her and distance her from him.

Instead, he replied with an ironic grin, "I'm Draco. Draco Malfoy."

Mirielle stared at him. She'd heard of the Malfoys, and they were of the purest blood she knew, besides her own family, who were famed for their only-magic marriages.

"Malfoy?" asked Nicole. "As in related to Lucius Malfoy, from the Ministry?"

"He's my father," the blonde boy – Draco – replied with a relaxed grin. The name commanded respect from Purebloods, and the family itself was heaped in money. He turned his gaze from Nicole to Mirielle, a glance that made her feel uncomfortable and loved at the same time. She suddenly wished that time would stand still, just for a moment.

"Well, it was nice meeting you four. Anna, Nicole, Fleur," he said by way of farewell, as he nodded to each.

"Miss Poesy," he added, nodding in Mirielle's direction. She hadn't heard her name said quite that way.

"Mr. Malfoy," she murmured, gazing up at his clear azure eyes. And then he was gone.


	3. Search for PoisonousFireSalamander Venom

Chapter Three

"Draco Malfoy," Mirielle said quietly, as she watched his retreating back, her head cocked at an angle. Fleur stood there, stunned by his suavity. Nicole and Anna had dissolved into giggles, only to be attracted by a group of Durmstrang boys, who had marched past purposely. Mirielle ignored the girls as they stared blatantly at the group, receiving a few whistles, waves, and winks.

"Draco Malfoy." She echoed herself again, her gray eyes shadowed by the uncertain arch of her brows. The courtyard was now only filled with unimportant Hogwarts students, splattered with the fur coats of Durmstrang. But he was no longer there.

"Draco Malfoy," she said yet again, tasting the name as it sounded with her own voice.

"I don't like him," Anna told Mirielle, interrupting her reverie. "His father's been involved in. . ." – Anna looked around and continued, lowering her voice – ". . .in some of the business regarding You-Know-Who."

"You've got to admit, he's got style," Fleur countered, giving Mirielle a nod of approval in her choice. "And it's only his father."

"Like father like son," Anna replied darkly, her brown eyes narrowing. "I thought he seemed. . . " Anna paused, looking for the right word.

"Perfect?" offered Mirielle, a dreamy smile on her face.

"I was going to say 'dodgy'," Anna replied shortly. Mirielle, however, gave her an angry look, so with her tongue between her teeth, Anna marched off, dragging Nicole with her.

The two Beauxbaton girls walked through Hogwarts, looking around corners and glancing into the library. Fleur was still on the lookout for Roger, but she had promised to help Mirielle. They both had agreed that although Mirielle had already caught Draco, she still needed to reel him in, so to speak.

As they walked along a corridor, talking, they heard a bell ring. A class of fourth year Transfiguration had just been dismissed. Fleur surveyed the crowd as Mirielle stared aimlessly, as always, finding interesting portraits and glancing up at the torch- filled walls.

"Ah!" exclaimed Fleur, "he's right there!"

"So?" asked Mirielle.

"My dear child!" Fleur replied. "We must follow him." Mirielle stared at her friend.

"What?!" she asked. But before she could protest any more, Fleur had pulled her along. Soon they were sneaking down stairs, and they followed the group of Slytherins and Gryffindors, down the musty-smelling hallways. Cold air wafted up to meet them, and Fleur and Mirielle continued to follow, as inconspicuously as they could manage. The floors, it seemed, were sloping steadily downward. The windows that had shown a cheerfully-lit afternoon were no where to be seen, as they were clearly no longer on the ground floor.

"We must be in the dungeons," Mirielle whispered to Fleur. The two girls watched as the group they had followed filed into a potions classroom. The door was shut by a wizard Mirielle and Fleur knew to be Severus Snape.

"You have to go in there," Fleur told Mirielle.

"Why?" responded Mirielle calmly.

"Just trust me."

"I would, if that was the first time I'd heard that," Mirielle replied. Fleur giggled recalling all the times she said that.

"Remember that time you wanted to sneak down to the kitchens and made me hold the torch?" Again, Mirielle's question was met with half-silent giggles.

"I believe," Mirielle continued, "That we ended up burning exactly five tapestries and about three inches off my hair!" Mirielle smiled at Fleur, who was having increasing trouble stifling her giggles. After a while she managed to compose herself. When she was no longer laughing, she gave Mirielle a look, opening her big blue eyes wide and puffing out her lower lip.

"Oh, not the 'Pretty-Please' look," Mirielle objected.

"Pretty please?" asked Fleur. When Mirielle sighed Fleur grinned and shoved her towards the dungeon door.

"Wait, what shall I say?" asked Mirielle.

"I don't know!" laughed Fleur, and before her friend could do anything else, she knocked firmly on the door.

Inching closer, Mirielle heard, "Answer the door, Mr. Thomas."

A fourth-year opened the door, staring at Mirielle. With a sideward glance at Fleur, Mirielle sighed and entered the Potions classroom.

Glancing around, she recognized the Potter boy whose name had caused such a panic at the dinner those many nights ago, and Draco, with those two thuggish boys next to him.

"Professor Snape," Mirielle called definitively across the room, "I was wondering if I could a bottle of Poisonous Fire Salamander venom. Our stores have run out."

Ringing silence mocked her brave attempt.

"Ah, yes, of course," the professor replied, "Miss. . .?" He waited for her name, his black eyes glittering in the torchlight, already judging her. Now she became conscious of every eye upon her, even Draco's bright blue pair seeming like pins and needles.

"Poesy," responded Mirielle, her voice strong and carrying, her chin raised and eyes sharp. The name was met by first silence, then some uncomfortable mutters and narrowed eyes.

"Miss Poesy," mused the professor, his eyes now alight with pleasure. He walked smoothly over to some cabinets and drew out a red bottle that glinted in the torchlight. Mirielle watched uncomfortably. The way in which his black cloak billowed as he walked made her feel as though he was some overgrown bat. He began to walk over to give it to her, but she walked confidently over and took it from his hand. After a moment of inspecting it in the dim torchlight, she nodded to the professor.

"Thank you, Professor," she added, her tone as commanding as always.

"Always a pleasure, Miss Poesy," responded Snape. Mirielle turned to leave, regretting coming to the front of the classroom. Every student stared at her, and she met each of their gaze with firm resilience, her chin drawn haughtily and her lips pressed firmly together.

As she neared the end of the rows, she flicked her eyes quickly to where Draco Malfoy sat. He was examining a book as though it contained the most precious and dear information to him.

"_Look up_," thought Mirielle. "_C'mon._" He must have felt her eyes upon him, because he glanced up, and as she neared the door, she saw his lips bend once more in that unmistakable half-smile.

The next morning, after their classes with Madame Maxime (the twelve uses of dragonsblood and the brewing of multiple health draughts), the headmistress called one of her pupils to say after class.

Mirielle waited outside the classroom, leaning her ear against the heavy wooden door in hopes of hearing the conversation.

"Miss Delacour," Mirielle heard Madame Maxime say, her strong French accent recognizable even through the door, "I have discovered the first task." Fleur didn't say anything Mirielle could hear, so Madame Maxime continued. "You must face a dragon."

Mirielle heard a little gasp, no doubt from Fleur. The two of them began discussing tactics. Not wanting to hear about the difficult spells, and feeling the beginnings of worry making her stomach knot, she walked aimlessly away. As always, her gaze roved around, past the open-air-hallways, glancing out the arches and doorways. She saw the groups of Hufflepuffs, wearing badges that glinted in the sunny afternoon sunlight. Her glance strayed to a courtyard, where a ring of students had formed. But that was of little interest to her, and she ignored the shouts of glee, the applause, and hoots of laughter. If one thing annoyed Mirielle, it was the use of magic as though they were entertaining Muggles, like those frauds in the cheap capes and hats, performing "magic tricks".

She wasn't looking where she was going, until she walked right into someone else who had been hurrying away from the courtyard. She quickly recognized the blonde hair.

"Oh, sorry," she told him quickly, offering a hand to help him up.

"Whatever," he muttered. Glancing up, he noticed it was her and sighed angrily. Still looking upset, he stood up (ignoring her offered hand) and brushed the worst of the dirt off of him.

"Are you alright?" Mirielle asked tentatively. Now that she was near him he looked somewhat paler than usual, and his normally perfect hair was mussed.

"Fine," he snapped, leaning tiredly against the wall, his azure eyes shut in either embarrassment or pain. Like his hair, his normally smooth manner was ruffled. Mirielle whispered a quiet, "Oh," and looked at the ground, waiting, unsure.

"What do you want, anyway?" he growled, his face twisted in a scowl.

"What's got your wand in a knot?" asked Mirielle, her face flushing with anger and embarrassment. Never had anyone been so unfriendly to her.

"Bet you thought that was hilarious!" he exclaimed angrily, opening his blue eyes to glare at her.

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about," Mirielle objected haughtily and truthfully.

"Oh, of course," Draco replied nastily. "Bet you don't worry your pretty little head over such insignificant problems such as those I face!" For a moment they stared angrily at each other. The silence stretched, both of their angry words echoing in their ears.

"Have you anything else to say?" challenged Mirielle, her jaw clenched and eyes cold and flashing with anger. Draco returned the angry gaze with an animosity that almost frightened Mirielle despite her own fury.

"Why are you following me?" he asked, his voice harsh.

"You were the one who came to talk to me!" she objected angrily, surprised at his cheek and audacity.

"Who says I came to talk to you?" snarled Draco. "Are you so arrogant that you think any guy talking is talking solely to you?" Mirielle was now staring at him, seething. But he didn't stop there. "Do you think that you are so perfect in every aspect that every man on the planet lives to serve you? That we're all – oh, what was the word you used? – "honored" to do everything for you?"

The silence that followed his angry statement made Mirielle's ears ring. Walking closer so that her face was barely an inch from his, Mirielle whispered furiously, "My father always did tell that the Malfoys didn't deserve to be called Pureblooded."

And with her cheeks flushing even pinker, Mirielle stalked off, her nose high in the air, leaving a tempestuous Draco standing in the shadows, looking as though he had just been slapped.


	4. Colin Creevey

Chapter Four

Mirielle managed to make it to an empty classroom before the angry tears that had been filling her steely-gray eyes spilled in rivers down her face. Sinking desperately to the ground, her back to the wall, Mirielle hugged her knees, the tears trickling off her face to leave wet stains on the knee of her skirt. A part of her mind was vaguely aware that she was just feeling sorry for herself, but that idea was quickly shunted aside, as she cried silently in the empty classroom.

Mirielle was so distraught and wrapped up in her own world that she didn't hear the door open, until she heard a sigh of pity. Turning her tear-stained face upward, she saw Fleur looking down on her.

"I wondered where'd you'd gone," Fleur whispered, sitting neatly beside her friend. She conjured a handkerchief and handed it to Mirielle, who wiped her face neatly, and looked at Fleur. She no longer looked as ruined as she had; the only trace of her previous tears were a pallor in her cheeks and the lack of a sparkle in her usually-friendly eyes.

Fleur didn't ask what happened, but simply waited, putting her blonde head on her friend's shoulder. Mirielle drew in a shaky breath, but her eyes remained dry.

"He insulted me," she said finally, her voice oddly loud in the empty room. "He insulted me," she repeated simply, "and then openly mocked me." Her voice was even, albeit regretful, and devoid of emotion. She continued in her flat tone: "I had only just said hello when he started, and then he just snapped."

"Obviously," Fleur told Mirielle, "there's been a little too much Pureblood inbreeding, which Muggles claim lead to insanity and goodness knows what else." When Mirielle gave a watery laugh, Fleur added, "Of course, many may not know this, but his father actually has his own _clinic_ at St. Mungos!"

"It's not like they don't have the money," Mirielle added drily.

"But enough about Malfoy – I figured out how I'm going to win the Triwizard Tournament!" exclaimed Fleur. Soon the two girls were chatting about spells and enchantments, and within minutes Draco Malfoy was the last thing of Mirielle's mind.

The next day, Mirielle found herself standing alone in the cold. It was much colder at Hogwarts than it had been at Beauxbaton, and many of Mirielle's friends had managed to find very warm Durmstrang coats. She was feeling determinedly alone when a clock struck noon. Mirielle hurried off in the direction of the Great Hall, when she heard a strange clicking noise behind her. It was some third-year, a Gryffindor, and he had a large camera, and was snapping shot after shot of her. When she turned, he lowered the camera, and piped up in his little voice, "Hi! I'm Colin Creevey! Do you mind if I take a few pictures of you? I find Wizard Pictures so fascinating, and you're just. . .you're. . ."

Mirielle turned and managed to smile beautifully at the annoying boy. She was in no mood for this.

"Why don't we take a few in here," she asked melodically, indicating an empty classroom.

"R–rr-rreally?" stuttered the Creevey boy, as though surprised by his luck.

"Yes," Mirielle continued flirtatiously, staring at him through her lashes.

The boy followed her in, and she closed the door. It took her only a moment, and once he was hobbling around under her Leg-Locker curse, she magically locked the door and continued off to lunch, humming quietly to herself.

Once she entered the Great Hall, she recognized her mistake. She had no where to sit. Looking quickly, she found that Roger's friend was waving quite animatedly and idiotically across the room. Sweeping her hair so it fell over one shoulder, Mirielle joined him. Over lunch, she found his name was Christopher, he enjoyed Quiddich

(". . .although I'm not on the House Team," he added regretfully), he had a pet mouse named Chester, and he liked to talk – constantly.

Mirielle was beginning to get a migraine from all his chatter, and her lips were sore from trying to keep smiling all the time. She excused herself from the desert course on the pretense of having to use the restroom, and ostensibly went off to do so. Once she left the Great Hall, however, she quickly walked to the library, where the sat down and put her head down on the table.

"Not feeling well?" inquired a sneering voice. Looking up through her hair, Mirielle recognized Draco Malfoy standing right above her.

"Who's following who now?" she asked, her gray eyes sharp and her tone furious. Quickly she moved her hair out of her face, behind her shoulders where it wasn't flirtatious and did not serve as a curtain.

"Serendipity, Miss Poesy. Although," he paused, his face mocking, "I suppose you don't know what that means." The sarcasm in his voice was so thick, and the smirk on his face so smug, Mirielle let out a derisive laugh. The jeer, however, did not go unnoticed.

"And," he continued, "that dress hardly seems appropriate for such a climate. Do you find it necessary to wear such skimpy clothing despite the weather?" She was wearing the usual Beauxbaton power-blue shirt and skirt, and the sleeves were not even half-way down her arms.

"At least my family can wear such clothing," she returned, "because we don't have anything to cover up."

"If that was some subtle accusation that my family is. . ."

"More of an insinuation, _Mister _Malfoy." The venom in her voice drew the attention of the librarian. She swooped in, whispering, "This is a library, miss!"

"It's alright," Mirielle replied, her eyes not leaving Draco's angry blue. "I was leaving anyway." She stood up, and walked evenly away.

She didn't tell Fleur about this encounter, but helped her train that evening, and they walked to dinner together, enjoying the quiet chirping of the crickets on the way towards the castle.

When they sat down at the Ravenclaw Table, and Fleur chatted happily with Roger. Again, Christopher tried to strike up conversation. Once she was seated, and the soup course was served, Christopher began his chatter again.

"I think that Dumbledore is trying to impress you guys," he told her, his brown eyes frank under the fringe of his brown hair. "Usually we don't have this many courses."

Unsure of what to say to this, Mirielle said, "Mhmm!" and took a sip of the soup. She tried to listen to what Christopher was saying, but her mind kept slipping off to other things.

". . .but I think I might drop Divination next year," Christopher was saying. "Although the way Trelawny teaches it. . ." Mirielle kept eating the soup, not noticing its rich flavor, oblivious to the gold utensils that had surprised her so many nights ago.

". . .and of course, I think that it's the Keeper's job to keep the score low," Christopher continued, now on the subject of Quiddich, "but then again it takes the Seeker to really end the game. Like at the World Cup this year. . ."

Mirielle felt her eyes glaze over. Suddenly, two guys walked over.

"Hi. . ." one of them said, staring at Fleur.

"What?" she asked, raising her eyebrows, her tone annoyed.

"Fleur Delacour," said the same boy, his cheeks flushing so they clashed horribly with the bright red hair.

"Yes," Fleur replied. "That's my name. And. . .?"

"I-I-I'm Ron," the boy stuttered. "Ron Weasley." He held out his hand. Fleur looked at it with a disgust.

"Charmed," she muttered.

"And you are?" she asked his companion.

"Oh," Christopher said, "that's Harry Potter."

"Harry!" exclaimed Fleur, brightening. "Have you met my friend –"

Mirielle elbowed her, muttering through gritted teeth, "Half-blood."

"What was that?" asked Harry.

"Nothing," Mirielle replied, smiling innocently.

"Well," Fleur said, tactfully changing the subject. "I'm looking forward to Friday."

"Friday. . .?" asked Harry.

"The first task!" Fleur replied. "We're competing."

"You're a Triwizard Champion?" asked the boy named Ron. "Well done!"

"As if he hadn't noticed," muttered Mirielle into Fleur's ear. Her lips twitched.

"It was nice meeting you boys, but Fleur and I must be off," Mirielle said evenly. They stood to go, and Roger stood also chivalrously (Christopher hastily and clumsily followed his example).

"You know," Fleur told Mirielle as they walked, "you can't be so picky. It may be impossible to find a wizard who is Pureblooded _and_ reasonable attractive. It's just not realistic. You may have to settle for –" Fleur stopped suddenly, staring ahead.

"I saw you talking to Potter and Weasley," came the casual drawling voice of Draco Malfoy.

"What's it to you?" replied Fleur quickly.

"I wasn't talking to _you_," Draco sneered.

"Jealous, are you, Malfoy?" Fleur asked. Draco turned to her angrily.

"He is jealous," Mirielle told Fleur, speaking quickly to avert his anger. "He's not a Triwizard Champion."

"Why would _I_ want to be Champion?" was the seething reply.

"It must be because Harry's a Champion," Fleur told Mirielle, ignoring Draco.

"Yeah, must be," Mirielle told her.

"You're shooting in the dark!" exclaimed Draco angrily.

"Miri, do you hear something?" Fleur asked.

"No, do you?" Mirielle asked. Fleur shrugged.

"Cute," Draco snarled. "Ignoring me. Very mature."

"Like always, Malfoy," Mirielle said, turning to him, her eyes furious, "I'll get the last word."

"And why's that?" asked Draco. Mirielle took a step closer so that they looked eye-to-eye, her head tilted up to that her hair brushed his chin.

"Because."

And the two girls swept evenly off to the Beauxbaton coach, leaving Draco standing alone in the shadows.


	5. Malfoy's Mistake

Chapter Five

Friday morning dawned with more anticipation in the air than usual, because although many students were looking forward to the weekend, most were waiting for the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. Fleur didn't wake Mirielle as early as she usually did, so Mirielle was surprised to wake to the gentle streaming of the sun through their bunk in the coach.

She got out of bed and climbed up the ladder to the upper bunk where Fleur was staring as though paralyzed with fear at the ceiling.

"I've been up for hours," she whispered, not moving her gaze from the ceiling. Unsure of what to say to her, Mirielle simply smiled.

"You've trained, and I'm sure that you'll do fine. The Goblet picked–"

"You're sure?" asked Fleur, turning to face Mirielle. Her voice was a quiet rustle in the silent room. "How can you be sure?"Mirielle bit her lip, and Fleur turned back to stare at the ceiling once more.

"Here, try some bacon," Mirielle urged, pushing the plate towards Fleur, who was looking decidedly pale.

"I'm not hungry," she muttered, staring at her empty plate.

"Water?" offered Roger, pushing a goblet towards her. Fleur reached to take it, but Mirielle understood why she hadn't wanted food; her own stomach was tied in knots. Mirielle managed to make herself eat a slice of bread.

Dumbledore stood and made an announcement, but Mirielle's ears refused to hear it, and she went numb when Fleur, along with the other champions, got up and left.

"Hey, Miri." It was Christopher. He had been sitting across from the table, watching her, his brown eyes gentle. He reached out to hold her hand. "It'll be okay."

Mirielle glanced up, and was for once glad that he used her nickname. She didn't pull her hand away.

The morning was cold and the wind brisk. Mirielle stood with the other Beauxbaton girls, as she alternated leaning over the ledge to peer into the arena and looking down at the wooden floor. Some of the girls no longer looked so upset at not being chosen. They were excited for a Beauxbaton victory, waving power-blue banners and yelling songs in French.

After what seemed an eternity of nervous waiting, a cannon went off, and Cedric Diggory walked into the arena. As he fought his dragon, barely escaping its lunges, Mirielle watched numbly, twisting the gloves from her hands. It seemed all too soon that Cedric finished, and the cheers of the Hogwarts students seemed strangely muffled. Next came the champion from Durmstrang, Victor Krum. He, too, outsmarted his dragon. It seemed only moments after he had come into the arena he was finished, and had the golden egg clutched under his arm.

Mirielle waited fearfully until Fleur finally emerged, and entered the arena. She began to charm the dragon as Mirielle had helped her practice. Soon the dragon was snoring, and Fleur was creeping carefully to grab the golden egg, when the dragon snorted in its sleep, letting out a flame that engulfed Fleur. Mirielle and all the Beauxbaton girls screamed in horror, but Fleur quickly extinguished the fire with her wand.

Even from the stands, Mirielle could see Fleur set her chin forward stubbornly, and once again sneak towards the dragon. Only once Fleur had successfully gotten her egg could Mirielle breathe once more. After she left the arena with yells from the Beauxbaton girls, Mirielle quickly hurried to the tent that had been set up for first aid.

By the time Mirielle arrived, the Hogwarts nurse had already treated the burns, and the only sign of the dragon-attack were the charred bits on the knee of Fleur's pants. The nurse then hurried off to take care of Cedric, who was on a cot nearby, his arm bleeding.

"You did great," Mirielle whispered, sitting carefully beside Fleur on the cot.

"I got the least amount of points," she told Mirielle, her face resigned and regretful.

"Well, I think you did great," Mirielle responded stubbornly, making Fleur smile.

There was silence inside the tent, although outside Mirielle could hear cheers and gasps and yells of the crowd. Fleur listened for a moment, then turned to Mirielle.

"Could you go and get Roger? I'd like to see him and let him know I'm alright."

Mirielle was about to give her consent, but the nurse bustled over.

"No, Miss Delacour! I was wrong to let your friend stay! You need rest, not a social hour!"

And before Mirielle could protest, the nurse had shooed her away. Glancing up, she found that the task had ended, and the arena had already emptied. Dejected, Mirielle turned and began to walk back towards the castle.

"Oy! Miri!" Mirielle glanced back to find Christopher hurrying through the group.

"Hey! Is Fleur alright?" he asked, trotting to walk beside her.

"Yes," Mirielle replied. "Fine." She glanced down at the ground.

"Good," replied Christopher. "I remember one time during Care of Magical Creatures Class I got burned by one of those salamander things. It hurt terribly, so Professor Kettleburn let me go to Madam Pomfrey, and I got out of classes for the entire day!" He paused, then continued, "I tried to get out classes the _next_ day too, but Professor Binns made me finish the essay, and then Professor McGonagall made me do this paper on. . ." He had lost her, and Mirielle was barely aware of his voice droning on.

"Oh, and guess what, Miri!" he exclaimed suddenly, startling her. When she didn't reply, he continued, "I did calculations, and if Fleur gets at least nine points during the next task then--"

"Calculations?" interrupted a mocking, sneering voice. Mirielle glanced up, and Draco was standing there, a malicious smile on his lips. Christopher glanced up too and stopped, staring in half fear and half anger at the smirking blonde boy.

"I suppose Poesy had to lower her standards," he continued, his blue eyes malevolent. "I mean, surely she couldn't go out with any Purebloods as she clearly isn't good enough, but going for Mudbloods. . ." he trailed off, his lips stretched in an unpleasant smile. After a moment's silence, he shrugged and added, "She must be rather pathetic."

Although Mirielle usually had a thousand things to say, clever, scalding remarks, her mind was blank and all she could do was stare angrily at the smirking boy in front of her. He grinned evilly at her, and turned to go. After a few steps, he turned around.

"Oh, and _Christopher_," he added, the mocking smile fading and his jaw clenching. "Don't called her 'Miri'."

He had barely been gone a minute, when Mirielle, seething with anger, strode off after him. Christopher attempted to follow her, panting to keep up.

"Really," he said, "it's alright. He's called me worse. . .don't really mind. . .it's not worth it."

"He's gone to far," Mirielle muttered. After another few furious steps, Mirielle stopped and turned to Christopher, who almost crashed into her.

"And I'm _not_ doing this for _you_," she added furiously, and began to walk away.

"Mudbloods," Christopher heard her mutter angrily as she strode off.

Draco was sitting in an empty classroom, reading some books he had taken from the Restricted Section when the door magically burst open. Mirielle stood there, her gray eyes narrowed.

"Ah, come to get me back for that comment about your boyfriend?" he taunted, the evil smile twisting his lips.

"The filthy Mudblood," muttered Mirielle, shuddering. Draco raised an eyebrow.

"So you're using him?" he inquired, feigning surprise.

"None of your business, Malfoy!" yelled Mirielle.

"Are you just upset about your friend, then, Poesy?"

"What do you mean?" Mirielle asked, her voice harsh.

"I mean," he continued, looking delighted, "she made a fool of herself." Mirielle took a deep breath, attempting to keep her anger in check. She mustn't let him know how much this upset her.

Draco, however, grinned, seeing Mirielle shake with repressed anger.

"I suppose it must be because she's a girl," he continued. "Although I believe she is just uncommonly weak. Did you see what she tried to do? She doesn't deserve to call herself a witch." He glanced up a Mirielle, watching her face carefully. "I guess the only thing she's good for is–"

There was a very loud _BANG_ and he was thrown backward, landing with a hollow sound against the stone wall. Mirielle was staring at him, furious beyond words. Her wand was drawn, and she pointed it directly at Draco. He looked surprised, and fumbled for his own wand. Mirielle, however, summoned it from his fingers before he hand a chance to say any spell.

He stood there, looking even more shocked, lying crumpled on the floor. Mirielle gestured with her wand and he was pulled to his feet, his face twisted in pain. When she released him, he sank against the wall, panting. Without warning, Mirielle brandished her wand like a sword and Draco was pressed against the wall, held by invisible bonds.

As though calm, Mirielle walked over, standing face-to-face with him.

"I suppose you think you're brave," she told him, staring at him. "But although you may have never thought so, I know spells you wouldn't imagine." She paused, staring at him, relishing his fear.

"I suppose it is a pity," she continued calmly. "You _are_ a Pureblood. But then again. . ." She trailed off, looking him over and faking disgust. He stared back at her, his eyes hard. Smiling to herself, she pulled his wand from where she had stuffed it in her waistband. He watched in horror as she snapped it into halves, then again into quarters. She let the pieces fall to the floor, her eyes not leaving his.

He watched her leave, and when she reached the door, he felt the invisible ropes that bound him loosen and disappear. He went to follow her, to end this on his terms, to get back at her for the way she had humiliated him.

"You can't just leave!" he exclaimed angrily, and saw that she had frozen mid-step. Mistaking that for consent to listen to him, he continued angrily, "You can't just–"

Before he had a chance to finish his tirade, she whirled and hexed him.

Flushing with anger, her breath coming short, Mirielle smoothed her hair, replaced her wand in her waistband, and turned. As she closed the door, she glanced back at the unconscious form of Draco Malfoy, regret tugging at her heart. Sighing despite her previous anger, Mirielle quietly shut the door, and walked back to the Beauxbaton carriage alone.


	6. Fear is Frightening

✴ Chapter Six ✴

The next day, Mirielle had told Fleur the highlights of her conflict with Draco, and the two of them walked around together, each trying to forget the previous day's embarrassment and disappointment. They spent the day wandering through the castle, trying to enjoy simple things like the promise of snow on the horizon and the beautiful scenery, but Mirielle and Fleur both felt empty and forlorn. It seemed that Mirielle and Fleur passed Draco and his friends in the hallways more than usual, or perhaps Mirielle found the tapestries and random ornaments along the hall less interesting so her gaze was drawn to the passing faces.

On each encounter, Draco appeared angry and upset, but mostly sulky, like a small child who is refused candy and knows he will never get it. Each time he swept past her, whether it was in the stone hallways or when he gave her a wide berth on the gravel paths, Mirielle felt an uncharacteristic longing, just to say something or do something to make him forgive her. She knew she was being silly; she was the one who should have to forgive him – or was she? The events were confusing, and she no longer knew who was to blame. Had it been her fault, for being prideful enough to try and end each argument on her terms? Or was it simply his fault for being so upset those many long days ago?

After one such instance, when Draco had glared sulkily at Mirielle as he angrily stomped past in one of the torch-lit hallways, Mirielle turned to Fleur.

"Fleur," she muttered uncertainly. The blonde girl turned to her. "I-I. . ." At Mirielle's stuttering, Fleur gave her a significant look and stopped walking. The brunette sighed. "I just feel," she continued as she walked, pulling Fleur, "that I should be doing. . . something. . ." she broke off, not knowing what to say, staring aimlessly out an open window. Fleur stopped Mirielle in her tracks, staring at her.

"No," Fleur replied flatly. "You are not trying to get him back." Mirielle continued walking. Fleur trotted to keep up. "This _isn't_ your fault," she continued vehemently.

"I know that," Mirielle replied quietly, stopping. "I just can't help feeling that–"

"Well, help it," interrupted Fleur tartly. Again Mirielle sighed, and shifted her one-shouldered bag. They continued walking in silence. Mirielle, her eyes roving as always, saw a buff Bulgarian stride past them. He was dripping wet, and wearing some sort of swimming trunks with a tank-top thrown over his muscular chest.

"Hel-llo," Mirielle muttered, following him with her eyes.

"Good to have you back, Miri," laughed Fleur. Mirielle grinned also, despite the tugging of remorse in the back of her mind.

They enjoyed the rest of the day, until Mirielle realized that they should begin researching for the next task. She decided to give Fleur a break. So, once dinner had ended, Fleur went with Roger on a walk around the grounds as Mirielle went to the library to research the mysterious golden egg Fleur had collected during the First Task.

She looked through many books, tiredly glancing through thick volumes. Around ten o'clock her mind began to refuse to comprehend what she was reading (something about three-eyed toads' eggs having each exactly thirteen spots or some other such nonsense). The library had closed about an hour ago, and the many lanterns that hung around the bookshelves had been extinguished, so she had been forced to light her own oil lamp.

At eleven o'clock by the chimes of the clock Mirielle's stamina began to waver, and she thought of giving up. But Fleur's need gave her strength to continue going to the shelves and picking more, tiny-printed, thousand-paged books. When Mirielle heard the next hour-chime of the clock, she felt a ripple of fear. It was midnight.

The clock chimed a second, ominous clang that sent another shudder across Mirielle's back. She looked around, straining her eyes into the darkness. A third chime. She told herself she was being silly, and returned her gaze to the open book before her. A fourth chime. Was it just her imagination, or had the lamp flickered? A fifth chime. She glanced up, watching the flame that was safely held within the glass of the lamp dance and waver. A sixth chime. Mirielle glanced back down at the book, but a strange sense of foreboding had filled her. Seventh chime. She turned a page in the book, her eyes flicking nervously from book to shadows and the unknown space around her. Eighth chime. Her ears strained for the slightest noise, but the silence was deafening and unnatural. Ninth chime. The oil lamp's flame flickered, creating strange shadows on the table. Tenth chime. Was it just her imagination or could she see figures in the shadows that lurked outside the glow of the oil lamp? Eleventh chime. The candle began to flicker quicker, the shadows dancing nightmarishly across Mirielle's frightened face. Faster and faster the flame danced, shrinking and fluttering hopelessly.

Twelfth chime.

The candle's flame went out.

Mirielle refused to be frightened. All she could hear was the beating of her own heart pounding in her ears, her eyes fighting to become accustomed to the sudden darkness. Quickly she stood, feeling as though blind, clutching the table. Should she relight the lamp? The darkness pressed against her, threatening her, making her body tense and feeling a scream stifled in her throat.

_You're being silly_, she scolded herself. Mirielle took a deep breath, hoping to calm her wildly fluttering heart. _Find your wand; light it._ Of course, the simple answer. She drew her wand and lit it easily, raising it to frighten the shadows and challenge the deep blackness ahead.

But what could she do now? She didn't know if they locked Hogwarts at night; they probably did. Where was she to go? Another question frightened Mirielle: How had her oil lamp, safe with it's surrounding glass, go out like that? It hadn't been a breeze: Mirielle would have felt it. There was only one answer. Someone was messing with her. And that thought was not comforting.

Raising her wand in her now slightly-shaking hand, Mirielle glanced uncertainly into the shadows that lingered around the bookcases, stretching from the floor up to the undistinguishable ceiling some many feet about her head. In the darkness and the quiet, Mirielle became paranoid. Her own footsteps must be covering the sound of her stalker. Her very breath masked the echo of his footsteps.

Every yard or so she stopped, waiting, not daring to breath, looking wildly in every direction, not knowing what she expected to see, not wanting to see what she worried may be there.

After a while, Mirielle heard the dull chiming of the clock, announcing the half-hour. With a jolt to the stomach, Mirielle realized she had been wandering around in the dark library for a half-an-hour. She was lost.

The ringing in her ears that covered the silence grew deafening; her heartbeat quickened to an unsteady tempo, accelerating wildly; her breathing became wilder and ragged. Her footsteps echoed in the library, becoming quicker and louder, turning corner after corner. She was fleeing, chased by darkness and fear, her stomach lurching with the discomfort of feeling lost, her mouth dry and eyes scanning furiously, searching for her unknown pursuer.

Suddenly, she stopped, quivering. In the darkness she felt another wave of fear, and felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

_Thump._

She drew in a sharp breath, and held it.

_Thump._ It was loud this time, closer.

_Thump thump thump, thump-thump-thump-thump._

Her breath was now faster, hopeless. She couldn't tell where the sound was coming from. The echoes ricocheted off the shelves. Again she felt those eyes upon her, and felt goosebumps on her arms. Turning timidly, Mirielle saw something that made her heart stop.

There was a figure approaching her in the darkness.

The footsteps slowed, now so near she could hear the clean tapping of the shoe hitting the polished stone floor. The figure was still yards away, but out of the glow her wand.

Terrified, transfixed, paralyzed with fear, Mirielle could only stare at the figure. She could see the reflected light glinting in his eyes.

She was trapped, with no hope of fleeing.


	7. Seventh Chapter

✴ Chapter Seven ✴

Her pursuer stood there, her wandlight reflecting eerily off his eyes. As he leaned casually against the bookshelf, she could see the glinting of his teeth as he grinned. Her heart was fluttering uncomfortably, and she felt her hand tremble as it gripped her wand. Mirielle bit her lip to keep from yelling at the person standing before her.

"Out for a late night library session, Poesy?"

She knew that voice all too well. She didn't dignify this with a response. When she didn't respond, his teeth flashed again in a evil grin.

"Not sleeping tonight?" he continued. His eyes lingered over her clothes, the ruffled appearance of her sloppy hair and the sleeve of her shirt hanging off her shoulder. Fixing him with a cold stare she attempted to improve her appearance.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" she inquired harshly.

"What's got you upset?" he asked with a malicious grin. "Afraid of the dark?"

"That's not funny, alright?" Mirielle snapped. He simply grinned. "What do you want?" she asked again, becoming frustrated. To her shame she felt her eyes fill. She couldn't tell if they were tears of anger, or of fear – or, perhaps, tears of relief.

"What?!" she yelled. Her hysterical yell echoed off the library shelves, filling the silence. Draco was now staring at her, his blue eyes uncertain. He was no longer grinning.

Sighing as though discomposed, Mirielle smoothed her hair by habit and looked away. She sniffed and swallowed, biting her lip, trying her hardest not to cry. Finally she turned back to him.

"You win, alright?" she whispered. "Happy now? You've beaten me, you've proven yourself, you've kept your honor." She felt her bottom lip tremble, and hoped that her wandlight didn't show the now more-pronounced glinting of unshed tears.

"What do you want?" she repeated, her voice trembling. Draco seemed even more confused and unsure of how to reply, and when he didn't respond, Mirielle felt a sob well up in the back of her throat.

"I – I just. . ." He looked at her, his eyes no longer malicious, but almost regretful. "I. . ."

"Just forget it," she whispered, and turned away. She hoped that the disappointment didn't show in her face or voice. And before he could see the glinting of tears on her face, she hurried away, finally finding her way from the maze that was the Hogwarts Library.

The next morning Mirielle awoke in the Beauxbaton carriage. For a second, she forgot the previous night, but as she sat up and glanced out the window at the pale morning light, it all came flooding back. She barely recalled how she had managed to find her way, half blinded by her tears, to the Beauxbaton carriage, but she had. Remembering the night before, she felt a tear slide down her cheek. Hearing a rustle of sheets, she hastily wiped away the tear. But Fleur was too quick. She caught Mirielle's glance and held it.

"Miri, what happened last night?" she asked, worried. Mirielle did her best to relay the details, but too often she felt her voice quaver. Fleur silently comforted her by gently smoothing her mussed hair, but listened to her story with pity in her blue eyes.

Like always they found themselves wandering purposelessly through Hogwarts. And, like before, Mirielle found herself meeting Draco's eyes. He no longer seemed sulky and angry. He seemed sorry. On one occasion, both Mirielle and Draco stopped in their tacks. They both opened their mouths, hoping that the right words would somehow come out. For a moment they stood in the hallway awkwardly, staring at each other. But Fleur noticed this, and hurried Mirielle away. Mirielle could tell that her blonde friend was itching to tell her that Draco wasn't worth it. Frankly, Mirielle didn't care if she did; Fleur's advice and anger seemed to no longer matter.

Without speaking, they continued down the hall. In some quiet hall some ways from any major classrooms, Fleur found a comfortable window seat. Both Beauxbaton girls seated themselves prettily and drew books from their matching blue bags. They read in silence, until the clock chimed eleven o'clock.

"I have to go meet Roger now," Fleur said simply. She glanced and Mirielle, and the brown-haired girl again felt her friend's sudden impulse to say something. But Fleur simply pressed her lips together and walked off.

A little after eleven, a bell rang, and classes let out. There was much chattering which interrupted Mirielle's reading. After a moment, though, the rowdy crowd had (for the most part) left, so Mirielle bent her head and continued reading.

". . . he's such a saint," she heard an all-too-familiar voice remark. "Always doing the 'right thing', and so righteous." This time, when Mirielle glanced up, Draco was surrounded by a group of laughing Slytherins, including those two boys who seemed to follow him around everywhere. There was another boy and a girl also.

"So, Pansy," Mirielle heard the unfamiliar boy say, "did you hear about what Draco did last night?" The girl giggled girlishly.

"No," she replied impishly. "I haven't, Blaise. Have you any idea of the details?" The conversation seemed fake and staged. Mirielle saw Draco run his hand nervously through his hair; he was obviously suddenly uncomfortable.

"Well, Miss Parkinson," continued the boy – Blaise – "I have no idea, as he hasn't told us." Blaise swivelled around and prevented Draco from turning the corner.

"So, what happened?" he asked, finally speaking to Draco.

"Did you break her?" inquired Pansy with an evil note in her voice. The two boys chuckled malevolently.

"It was that Mirielle girl, wasn't it?" Pansy continued in an annoyingly high-pitched voice. Mirielle felt her ears sharpen at her own name. Quietly, she slid her book back into her bag and crept closer so she was sure she was hid, but could better see Draco's face.

"Yeah," she heard Draco respond. "Mirielle de Poesy."

"Why her?" she heard Pansy reply huffily, as the Slytherin girl puffed out her lower lip. "She isn't even that pretty." Mirielle could have gasped indignantly, but she managed to remain silent. When Draco didn't respond, the Blaise boy asked, "So you managed to douse her candle?"

"Yeah," Draco responded.

"Was she afraid?" asked Blaise. Pansy giggled.

"Yeah." Now the group was staring at Draco, unsure of why he was so unenthusiastic.

"Well, you know," Draco continued, brightening, "I managed to get her lost by moving around the bookshelves. . .["What nerve!" muttered Mirielle. . .and then I used Peruvian Darkness Power along the edges, to make the effect better, you know?"

Now the group was hanging on to Draco's every word.

"What happened when she figured out it was you?" asked Blaise, awestruck.

"She totally freaked out," Draco continued, smiling. "And then she got all hysterical."

"What a girly-girl," remarked Blaise, disgusted. Pansy smiled.

"She was crying and yelling, a total emotional wreck," laughed Draco. "And then she got all huffy and ran away." The entire group laughed, sending chills up Mirielle's spine. Instead of feeling angry, she felt her eyes fill again. She drew in an breath quickly to try and stem her tears.

Draco glanced over one of the boy's shoulders, and for a second his surprised blue eyes locked with her tear-filled gray. At Draco's shocked expression, the rest of group turned to stare at her.

"Oooh," Pansy taunted, her voice obnoxiously loud. "You've upset her again." Mirielle simply tightened her jaw and swung her bag on her shoulder. As she walked past the group, she saw the laughter in the other boys' eyes.

"There she goes, crying again!" Pansy trumpted. Mirielle continued walking but as she passed she was forced to watch as the Blaise boy laughed and jeered at Draco, "Look who just screwed things up!"

That was just too much. Mirielle looked away and strode down the corridor away from the group as they laughed at her.

"Mirielle, wait!" she heard Draco cry. His friends seemed shocked by this, and turned to stare at him, but Mirielle hurried away, trying to keep her feelings from showing. She blundered down the empty hallway, walking as quickly as she could without breaking into a run. Behind her she heard Draco's footsteps.

He grabbed her elbow to keep her from exiting through a heavy wooden door.

"Look, Mirielle," he began awkwardly, "I'm really sorry about all this. . ."

"'All this'?" questioned Mirielle. "First you frighten me half to death, then you laugh about it and humiliate me!" Mirielle felt a confusing blend of sorrow, regret, and anger that her head began throbbing and her eyes threatened to cry once more. Impatiently she wiped the tears away before they could spill down her face.

"Draco." she said simply. "'All this' can't be fixed by an 'I'm really sorry'. It just can't."

She turned to go, but Draco still clutched her elbow.

"Let go of me," she said as though at first realizing that his hand gripped her tightly. He too seemed surprised, and quickly released her arm.

"Miri, please don't go!" he exclaimed as she stood half-way out the door. Hearing someone shout her name like that, hearing the desperation in his voice, she turned and looked into his eyes. She watched him, waiting.

"Please don't go," he repeated, looking forlorn. "Please."

"Are you begging me, Mister Malfoy?" she asked. Was he mistaken, or was there a playful glint in her eyes?

"Yes," he replied earnestly.

"'Yes' what?" Mirielle asked.

"Yes, I'm begging you," he replied, still sounding hopeless. Mirielle looked down at the ground, but Draco still caught the hint of a smile spreading across her beautiful face.

"I'm begging you, Miss Poesy," he repeated. Mirielle smiled and began to walk away. A few yards away from the open door where Draco stood, she turned.

"Oh, and Draco?" she said.

"Yes?" he asked eagerly.

"Call me Miri."

She turned and walked away. The door closed, and somewhere in the bright sunshine of mid-day, a blonde boy grinned, feeling uncommonly lucky.

THE END.


End file.
